


Understanding Who You Are

by JustAnotherNarrator



Series: The Stages of Being Series [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels are Dicks (Good Omens), Angst, Now with a little added Fluff, POV Second Person, Past Friendship, Reader-Insert, overdue conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-02 11:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherNarrator/pseuds/JustAnotherNarrator
Summary: He wanted to talk. At least, that’s what he told you once the two of you had stopped glowering at one another. You’re still not quite certain why you thought bringing him back to your apartment was a good idea though. The trail of reasoning had been something along the lines of whatever he might want to talk about might not be fit for human ears, but it doesn’t make this moment any less awkward, because as of now, neither of you is, in fact, talking.[Written as a continuation ofMissing Who You Werebut can be read as a stand-alone story.]





	1. Chapter 1

He wanted to talk. At least, that’s what he told you once the two of you had stopped glowering at one another. You’re still not quite certain why you thought bringing him back to your apartment was a good idea though. The trail of reasoning had been something along the lines of whatever he might want to talk about might not be fit for human ears, but it doesn’t make this moment any less awkward, because as of now, neither of you is, in fact, talking.

You’re sitting at your small dining table, one hand folded over your closed fist, as you eye the demon casually sitting on your windowsill, staring out at your incredible view of Notre-Dame; one of the perks of having lived in Paris for over eight centuries now. You even remember the day construction on it began. 

“That’s quite a view,” he comments, as if you didn’t know, as if he had any right to be making small talk right now.

“You said you wanted to talk, Crowley, then talk.” You spit out his newest name like it’s poison, without quite meaning to honestly, but the look of shock on his face does give you some undeniable satisfaction.

“Alright, well,” he starts, after a sniffle and quick clearing of his throat. “As you may have heard, Hell has decided to leave me alone for a while and since I’m not currently having to do anything evil, I figured, maybe, Heaven wouldn’t mind me getting in contact with an old...“ He pauses and seems to be looking for the right word to describe you, and your heartbeat seems to stop as you wait to hear what he’ll settle on. Does he see you as an enemy? You are an angel and a demon, after all, but you know, that hasn’t stopped him from fraternising with someone from your side for the past six thousand years! He can’t still see you as a friend though, that’s impossible, after all this time apart… especially since he’s made it clear millennia ago that he wants nothing to do with you.

After being sent to Earth, you had looked for him around Mesopotamia. You weren’t sure why really, except to see if he was alright… and maybe to shout at him for having been stupid enough to follow Lucifer and his rebellious cronies after all your warnings. One day, you’d finally located him, more by accident than anything else, and as you’d walked over to him, he had looked you right in the eyes. That was the first time you saw what those astonishing brown eyes that you’d been so fond of had become, and the shock stopped you dead in your tracks. He’d glared for a few seconds, before quickly disappearing down an alley. You’d thought it best not to follow.

“...with, you know, you,” he finally manages with a vague hand gesture in your general direction. He mumbles under his breath, something about this being harder than he’d expected, and removes his sunglasses, much to your discomfort. Your gazes cross and, even though you are trying as best you can to keep your expression neutral, he obviously takes offence with something he sees in your eyes.

“Oh that’s just grand! Really mature,” he exclaims, waving the glasses around, while you wish he would put them back on. When it becomes obvious he won’t, you choose to avert your eyes which sends him reeling even more. “This was a waste of time. You can’t even look at me! Yeah, I’m a demon now and that disgusts you, doesn’t it? Is it just being in the presence of evil that repulses you, or the fact we were friends once?”

The angrier he gets, the more hissing you can hear in his words, as if the snake inside of him is threatening to come out. Both your hands are now fists, still resting on the table, but ready to defend yourself at the first sign of aggression from him. The angel you used to know would never have hurt you - _Except he did_ , a little voice inside your head whispers. - but you don’t know if that would hold true of the demon he’s become.

“Stop.”

The word falls between the two of you and, indeed, stops him in his tracks as you met those yellow eyes you despise, although not for reasons he mentioned. You try desperately not to get lost in memories from a time immemorial, but it doesn’t stop images of a tall angel, with long ginger curls and an easy smile from flashing through your head. With a few blinks they swiftly dissolve, replaced by the actual tall demon, with the short ginger hair and angry snarl standing in front of you. You close your eyes one more time and breath in deeply before speaking. “I’m not disgusted by you, Crowley.”

“Sure doesn’t feel that way.”

You ignore his snide little comment as you stand slowly, feeling every single year you’ve lived, both on Earth and in Heaven, weighing you down. You walk over to the other window and watch as the sun disappears amongst the rooftops, setting the sky ablaze as it does. You’ve loved this view, this apartment for so long, but right now, you’d rather be anywhere but here. You’d rather be saying anything else than what is slowly making its way up your throat. You cannot bear to look at him, and instead just observe your own reflection in the window.

“I’m disgusted by my own failures.”

Your words hang in the air for a moment, the anger that was filling the space between you two fades into something else that you cannot quite identify. All you know is that breathing is suddenly much easier, each beating of your heart doesn’t hurt as much, and it does not feel like you’re being suffocated anymore; this is probably what humans call relief. Even the world on the other side of the glass seems somehow brighter.

“I-- I don’t understand. What failures? What have you done?” he questions, in a very different voice; much calmer and infinitely softer. A voice you’ve heard before, so, so long ago.

 _Of course, he has questions_ , you think to yourself with a sad smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. _He’s always had them, and look where it’s lead him._

You risk a look over to him, his face is much closer than you thought, but much to your surprise, he’s put his sunglasses back on. The little voice at the back of your mind ponders out loud if he did it for your comfort; a thought better not dwelled upon.

“I failed at every opportunity to save my only friend from eternal damnation.”

His eyebrows raise as you speak, his mouth falling open before you even finish your sentence, you don’t need to see his eyes to picture the surprised look in them. His mouth opens and closes and you can hardly believe that you’ve seemingly rendered him, blabberer that he’s always been, speechless. It’s such a foreign concept to you that you also find yourself at a loss for words for a brief moment.

“I tried to warn you, against Lucifer and his followers back then remember?” You struggle to articulate as you watch your own face reflecting in his dark shades, shaking your head lightly as you think back on all those conversations you tried to have with him, all your arguments falling on deaf ears. “I told you nothing good would come from going along with that ridiculous tantrum of his. He was jealous and arrogant, but just like the others, you were so taken by his words, by his promise that God would have to answer all your questions… and like a moth to a flame you went… you went and left me all alone.”

He opens his mouth and you just know he’s going to start arguing, but you can’t have that, not now that you’ve found your voice and can finally let go of everything that’s been eating at you since before Earth was Earth. You raise your hand, eyes resting on a spot of the floor as a respite from staring into that handsome face which has lead you into such trouble back in more carefree times, when you were both still on the same side. 

“And despite that, I still tried to stop them,” you whisper, clenching your jaw as your throat closes up on itself, breath getting caught painfully inside your chest. “I tried so hard! I couldn’t just let them throw you down… I screamed, and I yelled, and I questioned all of it! I--”

His hands on your arms silence you; they’re so warm they nearly burn your skin, and he’s squeezing a little too tightly, but you’re unsure if he even realises it. “You didn’t! Please, tell me you didn’t,” he begs, his voice shaking just as much as he’s unconsciously shaking you. “I left you behind to protect you! To make sure they wouldn’t think we were still friends if everything went pear-shaped. I wasn’t stupid, I knew God wasn't gonna take kindly to the whole let's try to take Her throne malarkey!"

"I never asked you to do that!"

"You didn’t need to ask!” He exclaims, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation, as if you’d just said the stupidest thing he’d heard in his whole life. “...you're-- you _were_ my friend, angel…” He sighs, sounding just as old as you feel. He takes off his glasses again, throwing them carelessly on the windowsill, as he runs a hand over his face. “...I'd have done anything to keep you out of harm’s way."

“And you were my friend as well…” His old name, the name you used to call him back in those days nearly slip from your lips, but you stop it at the last second, just like you stop your hand from reaching for him, wanting to rest it against his cheek. _No, that wouldn’t do… not anymore._ “You were what I held most dear. I couldn’t just stand idly by as they ripped you out of Heaven and cast you down…”

He’s shaking his head, and there’s unlikely softness in these new eyes of his but only for a moment before he sniffles and clears his throat again, going back to that too-cool-for-school tone he seems to favour these days. “Honestly I’m surprised She didn’t cast you right down along with me-- with the rest of us for that little stunt. We both know She doesn’t like being questioned.”

“I think the fact that I fought for Heaven’s side in the Rebellion was the only thing that saved me,” you explain, your left hand going instinctively up to rub your right shoulder blade as it always does when you think back on those days. “Of course, just because I got to stay up there doesn’t mean there weren’t any... well... _consequences_ , shall we say. Gabriel and Michael made certain of that.” 

“What did those white-winged wankers do?” As he hisses the question, you can feel the anger radiating out of him. All of that combined with his red curls and serpentine eyes gives him the appearance of fury incarnate, a true demon and a force to be reckoned with. You fear what he might do if either angel were to appear in front of him right now. He’d probably try and pluck their feathers out one by one.

You move away from the window, sitting back down at the table, motioning for him to do the same. Your mouth feels as dry as cotton and you reach for a glass of water you’ve poured for him earlier - out of sheer habit of mimicking human politeness quite honestly - which he’d chosen to not to touch. _Maybe he was worried I might bless it as soon as his back was turned or something._ As you down the glass, he settles himself in the chair in a way that is likely meant to look effortlessly cool, but truly seems contrived and uncomfortable. Sort of like the clothes he’s wearing now that you take a moment to consider them. His eyes are still boring into you, as if he might be able to read your mind for the answer to his question if he just concentrates hard enough.

“They ostracized me, of course,” you told him, keeping your tone as matter-of-factly as possible, fearing he might erupt at the slightest thing. You pass a hand through your hair, pushing it back from falling in your eyes. “But that was to be expected. I had no idea how lonely Heaven could be when all other angels decide to turn their backs on you. I was a pariah up there for somewhere around a thousand years, until there was an opening on Earth and it was clearly best for everyone that I be the one to fill it.”

“That’s actually pretty standard punishment,” he interjects, seemingly relieved as he stretches in his chair. “Knowing Gabriel, I feared he’d have thought up some cruel and unusual forms of retribution.”

“Oh, he did.” With that, you do something you never do, not even when you are alone with all the curtains drawn. You let your wings out and watch as Crowley’s easy smile fades into oblivion at the sight before him. Your left wing is still as glorious as ever, radiant with a faint ethereal glow, but on the right, there’s barely anything more than a stump, with a few sad feathers still clinging on for dear life attached to it. The result of a sword stabbing through your wing just before the articulation during the Rebellion. The only reason why you hadn’t been destroyed by the rebel who’d hurt you was currently sitting slack-jawed in front of you.

“I-- I thought,” he stammers, unable to tear his eyes away from the pathetic spectacle of what used to be your wing. “I thought they would have been able to fix the damage.”

“They could have,” you respond, bringing your wings back in to hide your shame. Your left hand going back to your right shoulder and gently massaging it. Somehow, it never truly stopped hurting. 

“They chose not to.” You both say the words at the same time, but on very different tones; yours is resigned while his is filled with anger and disbelief. He slams his fist against the table, and you almost jump out of your skin at the sudden noise.

“Sorry, I just-- I can’t believe they did that. Bastards! The bloody lot of them! And they dare act as if they were so much better than everyone else.” 

He vents and rants for a while, pacing around the room as he goes on and on, and you just let him, there’s obviously a lot of pent up frustrations inside him. The fact that certain angels despite how deviant they might be, still managed to keep God’s favour, while himself and his fellow demons have been forced to rot below has clearly been a sore point for him since his fall. You can’t say you disagree with his thinking though, heck, it’s been a sore point for you since his fall as well. When he finally runs out of breath, he turns back to you, his eyes shining in the darkened room. 

_When did it get to be so late?_

“But, one thing I don’t get, why didn’t you… you know, fix _it_ yourself,” he asks, pointing to where your mangled stump of a wing had been. “It would have probably drained you out of miracles for a few years and you’d like have gotten a strongly worded note from upstairs, but… I mean, it would have been worth it, right?”

You’re not quite certain what surprises you the most; the fact that he knows a suspicious amount about how Heaven runs these days - How close is he really with that angel he replaced you with to know all that? - or how much he seems to well... care. 

“It’s gotten dark in here,” you exclaim, after clearing your throat. He’s about to ask his question again, you can tell. “Let there be light,” you proclaim, raising one hand and snapping your fingers, in the same way so many angels will to produce a minor miracle. 

Nothing happens. The room stays bathed in darkness. You’re in no way surprised, but Crowley obviously is.

“I would have fixed my wing, if only I could,” you explain, a mix of resentment and resignation in your voice. “That was the other part of their punishment. As they said, I was lucky enough not to be cast down, but they couldn’t really allow me to keep my angelic powers as well now, could they? They had to make an example of me. The curse of immortality and none of the perks of actually being an angel.” By now, you’re laughing a most bitter laugh, as tears are pooling in your eyes. “I’m not really an angel anymore, am I? Nor am I a demon. I’m nothing really. I’m… I’m human plus!”

Your head rests in your hands, fingers curling into your scalp and pulling at your hair. What a spectacle you’ve just made of yourself, but you can’t even bring yourself to care. You’re tired and broken, and in constant pain, and for all his fault, all the pain he’s caused you, intentional or not, the demon on the other side of the table is still the closest thing you have to a friend on this Earth... or above it… or below it, for that matter. 

As you let out a shaky breath, you hear his chair scraping against the floorboard, and look up to see him, standing in front of you, sunglasses on and a resolute look on his face. He’s extending a hand down to you. 

“Come on, angel, we’re going out,” he announces, curling his fingers as he urges you to come with him. “I feel we need to get thoroughly shit-faced, you and I.”

You’re about to respond something but he cuts you off as he implores, “come on, trust me.”

And despite your better judgement, you do. You trust him. Before you can truly comprehend what is happening, your hand is in his as he leads you out of your apartment and into the Parisian night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting to write a second chapter to this story, but it simply would not leave me alone, and here we are.

After a short walk, the two of you found a pleasant little bistro and sat down at the perfect table, right by the big open window letting in the warm evening breeze. A three piece band plays softly on a small stage by the bar, and the place has this classic Parisian charm. The fact it is nearly empty is a nice surprise, although it might simply be due to the fact that Paris is full of delightful little bistros that might as well be from a different time and seem to have simply appeared out of thin air. ...or maybe it has something to do with Crowley snapping his fingers as you’d turned onto the street.

Except for a few bits of back-and-forth while you walked, like when you’d asked him why on Earth he was sauntering around the way he was, instead of walking normally - “What do you mean? This is just how I walk. Just normal, everyday relaxed walking.” “ _Relaxed_ , really? Looks more like _affected_ to me.” - which seemed to have insulted him greatly, or when he’d mentioned that, an angel and a demon walking into a bar sounded like the set up to a terrible joke, you’ve both kept mostly quiet. 

Your outburst back in your apartment has taken a lot out of you; it’s been a very long time since you’ve allowed yourself to let out your emotions like that. That, along with the realisation that despite resenting him for over 6000 years, the demon sitting in front is still the closest thing you have to a friend in this universe has left you with a lot to ponder. Rather quickly though, pondering becomes much harder as the two of you carry on drinking in silence, listening to the band playing quietly.

“Brilliant thing, alcohol,” he finally declares, apropos of nothing. “Probably one of the best things the humans invented, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” you chuckle a little as you nod, a bit more enthusiastically than you normally would have, realising slowly that you’ve been drinking on an empty stomach for some time now which you know you will be regretting tomorrow. Moments like these make you even more envious of angels - and demons, for that matter - who still have their ability to sober up on a whim. “...although, I heard a rumour a very long time ago that your side had been the ones to invent it. Something about it helping bring out the worst in humans?”

He shakes his head, laughing a little under his breath as he points to himself before taking a sip. You’re not quite sure what he means by that until he sets his glass down. “I might have written a memo to my bosses a long time ago about that, and I guess it spread,” he explains with a single shoulder shrug and a bit of a smug look on his face which he tries to quell in order to look innocent. Something he was never able to do even as an angel, always far too proud of whatever little mischief he’d managed to pull.

The look on your face at this declaration appears to be entertaining because a moment later, he’s laughing out loud and you find yourself doing the same. Your shoulders shake as you hide your mouth behind your hand. When is the last time laughter came this easily to you? As you look up again, he looks even more smug than before and you can’t help but feel like you’re part of the reason why.

“You must have been in so much trouble when they found out. I’m surprised you’re still allowed to be up here.”

“That’s the best part,” he explains further, still highly amused with the whole thing, while you take another sip of your now dwindling drink. “They have no idea! They’ve never checked up on it… or on any other memos I’ve sent them, really.”

You’re shocked at the lack of oversight he’s been getting from Hell, as he carries on telling you some of the other things he’s claimed responsibility for over the centuries. You remember all too well the constant hovering of the archangels back in Heaven before you were sent down here. You cannot be sure if they were doing that to all angels though, or if you were getting special treatment due to your public disagreement with Her. Just as that thought crosses your mind, Crowley drops a bit of information in your lap that confirms your suspicion, and you can’t help but wonder if telepathy might be a demonic power. “...it’s not like your side ever checks up on your work either, right? They never checked up on Aziraphale’s.” 

Just hearing the name of the angel that replaces you by his side sours your alleviated mood right away and you down the reminder of your drink in one big gulp before motioning to the waiter for another. This will be number three, right? Or is it number four already, you try to remember. 

As soon as it arrives, you take a long sip, letting the burning sensation of the alcohol melt away the shards of glass that seem to have logged themselves in your throat once he said that name. He seems completely oblivious of all that while he pours himself some more red wine from a second bottle the waiter just dropped off. _Of course he drinks red wine, it matches the look he’s obviously striving for._ You have to bite your tongue not to mention the fact that you’ve seen him eyeing your glass with what seems like envy when he thought you weren’t looking.

“The thing I don’t get is,” he begins as he sets the bottle back down on the table. He leans forward resting his chin in his palm before taking a sip, his face close enough to yours that you can smell the wine on his breath. “What is it they have you doing down here if you can’t do any sort of miracle?”

“Nothing,” you respond, your voice a bit higher than normal. He’s so close that you can see the vertical slit of his eyes behind his black shades and back away slightly, as you clear your throat; being this close to him feels too intimate for your comfort. Despite that, he leans closer, seemingly intrigued by your answer. “I don’t _do_ anything down here… My official task is to _observe all of God’s Creation_. That’s it. Once a year, they send some Principality to supposedly take my report, but really it’s simply to make sure I’m still alive living out my punishment… I haven’t provided a report since 1107 and no one as asked since. At first, Michael or Gabriel would pop down themselves, heal me of anything my human body might be suffering from, be it the plague or cancer - because letting me die or be discorporated would be too kind wouldn’t it? - and then they’d be own their way… By this point, they don’t even bother, they simply delegate me to one of their subordinates.”

“Bastards.” You hear him mumble into his drink, as you realise you’ve been staring at a spot on the wall just over his left shoulder as you spoke. You bring your eyes back to his face, before raising your own glass as you respond with a rather sarcastic sounding amen and clink it against his. 

You hear the glass break before even realising that you might have put too much force in your cheering, a gasp escapes from your lips and then it’s the searing pain in your palm that takes over everything. Blood begins pouring out of the cut when Crowley grabs your hand in his and just as suddenly as the pain started, it stops. He inspects your palm for a second longer, making sure everything is alright before letting go of your hand. You rub your thumb over the spot where the cut was, rubbing off the feeling of his warm fingers at the same time as you catch your breath.

“Thank you.”

“You’ve gotta be more careful, angel,” he tells you, and there’s a clear note of concern in his voice. “Especially since you can’t heal yourself. That could have been bad, if I hadn’t been around.”

You fail to mention that if he hadn’t been here, you wouldn’t be in a bistro this late, and three (or four) drinks deep, cheering at the fact someone else recognise your fellow angels for what they truly are. You also keep yourself from reminding him that you’ve done just fine without your angelic powers for the past few millennia thank you very much. He raises a hand, probably to clear up the table with his own demonic powers but he’s beaten to the punch by one of the waiters, cleaning up the table and assuring you, in French, that he’ll bring more glassware over in a second. You thank him and apologize for your own clumsiness before turning back to Crowley.

“I still don’t understand why She made humans that way,” you mention before the look of confusion on his face tells you to elaborate further. “I’m talking about the ability to feel pain. There’s so much of it. All the time. Maybe they can bear it because of how short their lives are… but then again, shouldn’t they be allowed to live their little mayfly lives pain-free? I mean, as an angel I felt pain so rarely… except for during the Battle and after when my wing - or lack thereof - would bother me, but I swear ever since I got this body, it seems like pain has been the main thing I’ve felt… some days I’ve even wondered if I wouldn’t be better off discorporated…”

“Oh come on,” he exclaims, pouring himself more wine as the new glasses arrive. “You can’t be serious about that. It’s not that bad. Plus, there’s some good sides to having a body. I mean, you can’t drink without one. Can’t eat either, which can be pretty enjoyable. Can’t feel the sun on your skin or have sex or--” Your scoff at that last one cuts his list short and he frowns at you before leaning forward, a little smirk starting to pull at his lips and you’re already bracing yourself for whatever teasing is about to fall from his lips. “Don’t tell me you’ve never tried it? You’ve been down here long enough…”

“Of course, I have,” you assure him, promptly shutting down his silly questioning as he sits back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, seemingly less interested in the conversation all of a sudden. Probably because he cannot tease you about it. 

“I was married thirteen times--” You watch his eyebrows jump to the middle of his forehead and mouth fall open and you wave it off. “It was never of my own accord. Just wrong place, wrong time, as they say,” you carry on explaining. “...and I can assure you that sex is not a pleasant thing… I don’t know why humans choose to do it, other than to reproduce.”

His arms uncross and his shoulders fall as he quietly looks at you for a long time, not even touching his wine as he stares, and for once, you wish his snake eyes weren’t hidden from your view. Maybe then you could gauge what was going on inside his head, what he might be thinking. 

To distract yourself, you turn in your chair and look over at the band, still feeling Crowley’s eyes on you. You listen as they finish one song and begin another, this one you recognise as a smile brightens up your face.

“I like this one,” you mention with a glance over your shoulder at your drinking companion. As you turn back toward the band, you can see him stand up out of the corner of your eye. He grabs his glass and finishes it in one gulp before moving right in front of you with his hand extended, reminding you of how he’d acted earlier when he decided the two of you needed to go out and get drunk. You half expect him to tell you it’s time to leave, but he’s full of surprises - _He always has been._ \- and instead he says: “Dance with me, angel.”

You laugh and shake your head at him, but his face says he isn’t actually kidding. “Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley, you know very well that angels do not dance.”

“You said it yourself, though, you’re more _human plus_ than angel these days, so why not give it a try?” 

He’s smiling down at you, and what a charming, tempting smile it is, as his hand beckons you. You grab your drink and, just like he did, gulp the rest of it down before taking his hand. What do you have to lose anyway?

Your legs feel like cotton after all the alcohol and he’s the one holding you steady for a moment, holding your hand in his while his arm snakes around your waist bringing you closer than you’d expected. You’re uncertain of where your other hand should go and he nods toward his shoulder. He’s guiding your movements as you begin to move slowly around the empty space between the tables. “As we both know,” he begins, his voice low enough to be a whisper, “my kind does dance, but we don’t tend to be very good at it, so I’m probably going to step on yours toes a few times.”

“Then better watch those hooves, demon,” you chuckle back, you looking up at those dark shades of his and catching a glimpse of his yellow eyes behind your reflection; they’re half closed and he looks so sirene, something you didn’t know a demon could even be. He’s right of course, about stepping on your toes, but the pain barely registers and you both carry on, after his quick apologies. Right now, you just feel warm all over and you cannot tell if it’s just his demonic warmth or something else, something much more ancient, something you thought had been extinguished eons ago, reignating itself. The truth is that he’d been much more than a simple friend to you in those days; he’d been the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen and you’d been enthralled by him. One might even say, enamoured.

“See,” he whispers, his hissing breath making the hairs on your neck raise on end. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“Well, you just said yourself that demons don't dance well, so I’m not quite certain I can trust your opinion on that.”

“Oi! That-- that was uncalled for,” he exclaims, feigning being devastated by your words, his wide smile ruining his dramatic. “I should just stop dancing with you. One song, that’s all you get!”

“That would have more weight if we hadn’t been dancing for the better part of three songs already.” 

He doesn’t respond to that, just keeps on swaying with you in his arms. Moments later, he attempts to spin you and bring you back to him and you both nearly topple over. As you laugh it off, you wonder, for the first time in so very long, if maybe She’s forgiven you. Both of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't specify which song the Reader heard playing in the bistro, so you can choose to hear whatever you might prefer, but as I was writing, [this](https://youtu.be/q_bq5mStroM) was the song playing inside my head.


End file.
